


To Mary on Her Birthday

by karrieblue



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrieblue/pseuds/karrieblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning of her birthday, Mary awakens to find a letter from Francis upon the pillow beside her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Mary on Her Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> In my Reign universe, Mary and Francis are happy and Conde doesn't exist. That is all.

Floating somewhere in the grey mist between asleep and awake, Mary Stuart rolled toward her husband's side of the bed, anxious for the feel of his warm skin beneath her cheek. The frigid December winds constantly seeped through the castle walls and chilled the air around them, impervious to the roaring fires meant to keep the cold at bay. In their bed, however, under a pile of thick, heavy blankets, Mary knew that she was snug and warm and safe.

Still, she longed for the heat of his body against hers, wanted to bask in his warmth the way that a cat will languidly soak up a patch of sunshine, and so she turned and reached for him blindly.

Only he wasn't there. Francis was gone.

Her eyes flew open as her fingers encountered the empty space next to her, the sheets not yet grown cool to her touch. Wherever he was, she knew that he could not have been gone long.

Upon his pillow lay a sheet of parchment, folded letter-style but not affixed with any seal. Even in her bleary state, she recognized her husband's slanted, spidery script immediately.

_To Mary, on her birthday_

As reality slowly began to penetrate the still-slumbering recesses of her mind, she blinked in an attempt to rid her vision of the last fuzzy remnants of sleep.  _Oh,_ she thought, suddenly remembering.  _Oh_ ,  _That's right. It's today_.

Yes, it was the 8th of December, and it was her birthday.

Even the farthest corners of the room were aglow in the sunlight streaming in through the thick glass of the windowpanes, yet there was no sign of Francis. Clearly, he had meant for her to find the letter. Should she wait for him to return before she opened it? He would not leave her alone in bed for long, of that she was certain. But surely he had meant for her to read it immediately, hadn't he? He knew how impatient she was, how she unable to resist she found the lure of instant gratification.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes before plumping her pillows against the headboard so that she might recline upright. Then she reached for the letter, smoothed it open upon her lap, and began to read.

_Dear Mary,_

_Just Mary,_

_My Mary,_

_As I sit at my desk writing these lines, I can look over across the room to where you lie sleeping in our bed, a funny little half-smile on your face. What are you dreaming, I wonder, to make you smile so? Whatever it is, I am thankful for it, for seeing you smile never fails to lighten my heart and make me glad. You look so peaceful, so carefree and still, and when I think of the years stretching before us, of all the nights I might glance up from my desk and see you just as you are now, my heart swells to bursting with joy and gratitude. Tonight and every night, I know myself to be a profoundly lucky man._

_In three days it will be your birthday, and all here at the castle will celebrate you, just as they did last year. There will be a feast and a masque in your honor, and I have no doubt that you will be showered with gifts from lords and servants alike. Your delight in receiving them and the sincerity with which you express your appreciation are simply too endearing to resist. I am their king, but it is you they long to please, and I cannot help but feel that it is only right. After all, I myself long to please you more than anyone, and I hope that I have, Mary._

_I hope that I have._

_There is no birthday gift that I or anyone else could bestow upon you that will ever compare to the one that I was given on the day you first came into this world and looked on it with your newborn eyes. God sent you to me that day just as surely as He did on that morning when you set sail for France. For you, it was journey to a new life, a new home—which, from the moment I saw you, became_ our _life and_ our _home, just like that._

_How vividly I remember seeing you that day, a little girl whose dark hair ruffled in the breeze and whose dark eyes shot sparks of curiosity. To think of you now as you were then brings a pain that is both sharp and sweet to my heart. Looking over at you as you sleep so peacefully, I know that I would not trade you for anything in Creation, but, oh how I loved that little girl. How I miss her. Will I see her again someday, in the bright smile of our daughter? In the dark gaze of our son?_

_You asked me once if I will still love you when you are no longer young and beautiful, when the years of childbearing and responsibilities have taken their toll. How can I make you understand that you will always be Mary, my Mary, as you were and are and forever will be? How can I convince you that there is no wish dearer to my heart than living to see us grow old, our hair streaked with grey, surrounded by our children and grandchildren?_

_Ours is a marriage that was planned from infancy and born of duty and sacrifice. It is sealed with a treaty that was negotiated without our input, which gave no thought to our hearts or where they might lead us. Yet I have loved you, and love you still. No priest or sermon has ever been able to accomplish what you can do with one glance in my direction, for when your eyes meet mine I know that there is a God and that He has brought you to me, and I to you, and sown love where love has no right to be. And this is why, on that distant day when He returns to judge both the quick and the dead, when we will be made to answer for all that we did and did not do, and I am asked what I did with this life that I have been given, I will make no mention of ruling a country, or commanding armies, or dispensing justice._

_When I am asked what I did with my life, I will say that I spent it with you._

_A moment ago you tossed in your sleep and called out my name. You sounded so small, so frightened._

_"I'm here, Mary," I said, and you turned toward me and opened your eyes, whose dark depths are and will always be my undoing. "I'm right here."_

_You smiled, your eyelids drooping before I even finished speaking, and you were gone in an instant. I smiled, too, for this is the gift that I wish to give you above all others, the one thing I would want you to have if I could provide nothing else. A safe haven. A sleep without fear._

_Mary, for as long as I have ears to hear you and the breath to speak your name, that shall always be my answer, and I want you to know this:_

_I am here._

_I am right here._

_All my love for always,_

_Francis_

_5 December 1559_

Mary wiped away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks and looked up just as she heard the handle of their bedchamber begin to turn. Her heart leaped to see that it was Francis, his arms laden with a silver serving tray, and she could not hold back her incredulous giggle as he set it carefully down onto the table beside their bed and whipped the lids from the dishes with great flourish, revealing eggs, porridge, rolls, and jam.

He seemed quite pleased with himself.

"Don't tell me that all the servants have run off," she teased.

He laughed softly as he set aside the domed silver lids and sneaked a bite of eggs. "Not quite, but I think a couple of them may have died in shock when I told them that I wished to serve the queen breakfast myself."

She glanced at the heaping plates of food. "Please tell me that you don't intend for me to eat all that."

"Eat as much or as little as you wish, darling," he said, then bent to drop a kiss upon her forehead. "It's your day."

At the soft pressure of his lips against her skin, she closed her eyes and sighed. A moment later she felt the pad of his thumb glide across her cheek, and she sensed rather than saw the frown that followed.

"You've been crying."

Her eyes blinked open to the sight of his worried face, and she quickly smiled to reassure him as she took hold of his wrist and nuzzled her face against his palm. "I read your letter."

He sank down onto the bed next to her, and was forced to pull her half onto his lap in order to keep from toppling off the side when she purposely refused to make room for him. At that moment she wanted to be as near to him as possible, and she practically burrowed into his side before reaching up to twine his curls through her fingers, like an infant snatching at something bright and sparkling that has caught its eye.

"I didn't write it to upset you," he told her, lifting up and tucking her underneath his arm to hold her even more tightly against him. With her head now resting in that warm space between his neck and his shoulder, she could hear the echo of his voice within his chest, the sound of which always thrilled her. She loved being this close to him, so close that she could hear his heartbeat, the breath in his lungs, the gentle thrumming of blood through veins and the soft gurgle in his throat as he swallowed. She felt silly for cherishing these sounds, but cherish them she did. Each one was a reassurance that he was here. That he was real.

That he was alive.

"It didn't upset me," she assured him. "It made me so happy that I could hardly stand it. I couldn't have asked for a better gift. Reading those words from you meant more than all the gold and all the jewelry in the world ever could."

He chuckled, and she felt its reverberation gently beneath her cheek. "I suppose I'll have to send back the collar of diamonds and rubies that I had commissioned, then. I didn't realize they would be such a disappointment."

Abruptly, she sat up and swatted his arm. "No, don't you dare!"

His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Don't worry, my love. There are many things which I would dare for you, but denying you something beautiful isn't one of them." He reached up to delicately trace his fingertips across the skin of her décolletage, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "Though I must admit that I'm quite looking forward to seeing how it looks against your skin when you're wearing nothing but candlelight. You see," he yanked lightly on her wrist, pulling her down so that his lips brushed against hers as he spoke, "I'm a selfish man at heart."

She kissed him then, and bit teasingly at his lips, but the playfulness did not last for long. Within moments they were rolling across the bed and she was writhing beneath him, desperate to feel him—really and truly feel him. She tugged impatiently at his clothes, but in her haste could do little other than pull one of his arms free from his linen shirt and knot the laces of his trousers. She could have screamed in frustration, and might have done, but she knew that it would only make him laugh. He was an expert in making her wait, the only person on earth to whom she would willingly beg, the only person who knew just where and when and how to render her hungry and helpless and pleading.

Finally there was nothing between them, nothing at all, and she arched up against him as he pressed into her, the palm of one hand curved over her hipbone to hold her steady. She gasped and held onto him while he, as he quite often did, went absolutely still for a moment, dropping his forehead against hers and savoring the moment of connection.

"I love you," he whispered.

Afterward, they lay in a cozy tangle of sheets and limbs, huddling close together as the air rapidly cooled their sweat-slick skin. Francis stroked her arm absently, his moments kept in time with the rhythm of his breathing, and though she knew from experience that he was close to dozing off, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Someday, I'll do it for you."

"Do what?" he asked, his tired voice thick and slurry.

"Put into words what you mean to me." She propped her chin against his chest and gazed thoughtfully at him as he regarded her through half-closed lids. "I know I don't say it often enough. I wish the words came as easily to me as they do for you. But you must know that I love you. You must know."

The corner of his mouth curled up, a shadow of a smile. "You don't have to write a letter to tell me that."

"A poem, then," she amended. "I'd probably be better at that, anyway."

His eyes were closed now. "Alright, a poem, then."

"Yes. To tell you how much I love you."

His breath hitched in amusement and he murmured, "I already know that."

She rolled her eyes. "Then I'll tell the world, instead."

"I'll remind you of this the next time you scream at me after a council meeting."

"Go right ahead. That won't stop me now that I've made up my mind. Just wait. I'll write you the sweetest, most touching love poem in the world. Hundreds of years from now people will cry when they read it."

"Is that a promise?"

She traced her fingertips along the faint blue webbing of veins at his throat, wondering to herself if she would ever grow used to this—the marvel of his body, warm and alive beneath her touch.

"I promise," she said.

Only Francis did not hear her last words, for he had fallen asleep.

Mary sighed, and within moments she, too, had nodded off, and when they awoke later that afternoon to dress for her birthday celebration, their mood buoyant, their faces beaming as they talked and stole glances at one another, neither mentioned the promise that she had made and would someday keep without him ever knowing.


End file.
